One morning, after a beautiful snowfall
, I sent a letter off to friend's house about something I had wanted to say. But I had mentioned nothing
at all about the snow.
In his reply, he wrote, "Well, how can I listen to someone so crude that his brush does not make even a reference to this snow. I deeply regret that you express yourself so reservedly to me."
This answer was amusing. But now that the writer is dead, I can never forget even so small an incident.
This is section 45 of
Tsure-zure-gusa ("Essays in Idleness")